


Stress Tested

by larkscape



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Autofellatio, Flexibility, Flirting, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 20:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: “Are you calling me a liar?” Yuri asks indignantly.“Oh, I’ve seen it done. I’m just expressing doubt thatyoucan do it.” Otabek's voice is flat and reasonable and Yuri kind of wants to scream.(Written for a kink meme prompt: We all know Yuri's crazy flexible. Otabek bets him he can't suck himself off. On webcam.)





	Stress Tested

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://yurionicekink.dreamwidth.org/881.html?thread=201841#cmt201841) on the kink meme.

 

“Are you calling me a liar?” Yuri asks indignantly.

“Oh, I’ve seen it done. I’m just expressing doubt that _you_ can do it.” Otabek's voice is flat and reasonable and Yuri kind of wants to scream.

“Fuck you, Altin,” he snaps. “I can do a full Biellmann spin, of course I can suck myself off.”

Otabek stares him down through the webcam, inscrutable as always. Yuri worries suddenly that he's said too much as one of Otabek's eyebrows lifts.

“Prove it.”

All the blood in Yuri’s body sinks and then surges again. “That sounds like a dare.”

“And if it is?”

Otabek is blushing, obvious even with the shitty video quality, but his dark eyes remain steady. Yuri swallows in an attempt to bring moisture back to his suddenly parched throat and holds Otabek's gaze.

Yuri Plisetsky does not back down from a challenge.

“Fine.” Yuri takes great satisfaction in the momentarily-uncensored look of shock that flits across Otabek's face. What, he thought Yuri would refuse? He ought to know better by now. “Sure, I'll prove it.”

Otabek is tongue-tied. Yuri has rendered him speechless. Excellent.

Now Yuri just has to figure out where to start. He fiddles with the angle of his laptop screen for a moment, unsatisfied, then gives it up as a lost cause and relocates to his bed, settling the laptop on his pillow and arranging himself sideways in front of it.

“There. Can you see?”

Otabek clears his throat. “There’s not much to see yet.”

“Oh, fuck you _and_ your mother. This is just setup.” Banter is good. Banter distracts him from the fact that he’s unzipping his jeans so he can blow himself for his best friend’s amusement.

What did he get himself into?

“My mother is a saint, Yura,” Otabek sasses in his driest tone. “Watch your tongue.”

 _"You_ watch my tongue.” The retort slips out of Yuri’s mouth without thought as he pushes his jeans down his legs, but then he realizes just what he said. “No, really. Watch my tongue.” He wiggles his eyebrows at the camera — play it for humor, make him laugh and it’ll be less weird — then folds himself over his knees to loosen his spine.

He sneaks a look at the screen through his hair to find Otabek watching him intently.

“Put your hair up,” Otabek says. Yuri shivers involuntarily at the commanding note in his voice. “I won’t be able to see if it’s down like that, and if I can’t see then I can’t say for certain that you’ve done it.”

“What, don’t you trust me?”

“To cheat? Yes, I do.”

It feels silly, but the teasing puts him at ease. It’s just Otabek. Nothing strange about this at all.

“I would never! This is serious now, Beka; you’ve called my honor into question. Give me a second.” Yuri rolls out of his stretch and pads to his desk in his boxers to hunt for a hair tie. He scrapes his hair up as he walks back to the bed, and when he can see his laptop screen again it shows Otabek lounging against his bed pillows.

“Getting comfy?” Yuri asks, securing the tie.

“I want to be able to enjoy the show.”

Now that’s just unfair. Otabek shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that when Yuri is about to— do what he’s about to do.

Yuri flops back down, then scrambles to catch his laptop when it almost slides off the bed.

“Trying to get out of it?” Otabek asks, laughing at Yuri’s struggle.

“You wish,” Yuri snorts. The laptop is stable again, and he shakes his shoulders in preparation.

He’s really going to do this. He’s going to suck his own cock on webcam. For Otabek.

He is in way over his head.

“Yuri,” Otabek starts, sounding suddenly serious, and Yuri marvels that he can tell the difference between teasing-serious and real-serious in Otabek’s voice — the two are almost identical, but Yuri is so familiar with all his shades of tone that the difference is plain now. “You know you don’t have to—”

Yuri cuts him off. “Beka. You know me better than that. I don’t do things I don’t want to.”

Otabek stares. Yuri can feel the tension returning, ratcheting tighter in his ribcage.

“Besides,” he continues with a laugh that’s only a little forced, “I thought I told you: my honor is on the line here. I have a point to prove.”

“Of course,” Otabek says magnanimously.

Yuri has to look away from the screen when he shoves his boxers down. He’s barely hard. Knowing Otabek is watching stirs something deep in his core — he likes people to watch him, it’s a job hazard — but fuck, he’s nervous. This isn’t like performing at all. It’s a lot more like learning a new jump, taking off without knowing if he’ll land cleanly or crash to the ice. This is fresh ice and brand new choreography with no coach in sight.

There’s only one way to go: forward. Yuri didn’t get to be the best through a lack of willpower.

He lowers the leg closest to the camera so Otabek will have an unobstructed view (and hell, that means Otabek is looking at his dick, that Yuri is _inviting Otabek to look at his dick,_ which is a heady thought that’s certainly having an effect in the hardness department), takes a deep breath—

—and drops his head between his thighs, his mouth pressing against the crown of his cock.

“Holy _shit,”_ Otabek gasps. The words smooth over a large swathe of Yuri’s scored nerves and his cock throbs against his lips in reaction, swelling further. Yuri wants to make Otabek say things like that all the time.

He licks over the head, showy, pulling back the foreskin with his hand (the back hand, careful not to block the camera’s view) and circling his tongue around. It’s a little salty, a little musky, but the point isn’t the flavor, or even the pleasure of having a mouth on his cock.

The point right now is the skill. The showmanship. Knowing how impressive he is like this, twisted impossibly in on himself, and feeling someone else’s eyes — Otabek’s eyes — on him, recognizing his talent, drinking him in.

Yuri slides his mouth down, closes his lips around the shaft and sucks until his cheeks hollow. God, that feels good. Everything feels good, even the tightness in his neck.

 _"Fuck,_ Yura, I believe you, you don’t have to—” Otabek sounds wild, consumed, and Yuri lets the thrill of it travel down his spine. His mouth makes an obscene noise when his dick pops free.

“If I’m doing this then I’m doing it _right.”_ He trains his gaze directly on the camera as he wraps his lips around his cock again.

Otabek breathes like the air is being forced out of him.

“... _Shit,”_ he whispers. “Goddamn.” Yuri is pretty sure that Otabek has no idea he’s even speaking. He sounds absent.

Yuri did that. He knocked the sense clean out of steady, stoic Otabek. The idea is intoxicating.

Yuri runs his fingers up the underside of his cock and pulls his mouth back to rub the head across his lips, drawing a sticky line with his precome which he then licks off. He knows what his mouth looks like when he does that, red and wet and inviting, and the strangled sound coming from his laptop speakers says that Otabek appreciates the view.

It takes a lot more brainpower to suck dick than to have your dick sucked. Yuri doesn’t mind; he likes the feel of a cock in his mouth, the velvet slide heavy on his tongue, the burn in his throat when he goes a little too far. And so what if he imagines, more often than not, that the cock in his mouth belongs to someone else, someone currently on the other end of a Skype call.

Yuri watches the laptop screen from the corner of his eye while he lowers his head down to take his cock as deep as he can get it. He moans when he feels the head pushing into his soft palate, picturing Otabek spread out beneath him, thrusting up into his mouth. Picturing himself thrusting into Otabek’s mouth, his full lips wrapped around Yuri’s cock, sucking so sweetly.

Otabek on the screen is too still, frozen but for the rise and fall of his chest, eyes wide.

Yuri swallows once, shivers and does it again, then pulls off.

“Come on, Beka,” he says, voice a little raspy. “You don’t have to just sit there. If I’m putting on a show, you should enjoy it properly.”

“...Yeah?” Otabek asks, lust-slow and breathy. Yuri smirks.

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Fuck,” Otabek says. “All right.”

The view jiggles as Otabek moves his laptop; it ends up a little farther from his face and lifted higher, like it’s sitting on a pillow on his legs. Yuri can’t quite see what his hands are doing, but his forearms disappear out of the bottom of the frame.

“Better?” Yuri asks with a wicked smile. Otabek makes a wordless noise of assent.

Yuri drops back down without preamble, plunging his mouth over his own cock and working his tongue in swirls along the shaft as far down as he can reach, covering the rest with his fingers. When Otabek hisses with pleasure, the sound sears into Yuri’s stomach, burning in a line from navel to spine. Otabek’s shoulders shift, just a little at first and then more, faster, and Yuri may not be able to see it onscreen but he knows exactly what’s happening there: Otabek’s wide palm wrapped tight around his own dick, his fingers rubbing along the underside, thumb teasing the head — Yuri wants that hand on _him._ He moans around his cock and the sensation shoots through him from balls to throat and down to his toes, makes his back coil tighter.

Otabek groans in response. The motion of his forearm, what’s visible at the bottom of the frame, speeds up.

Yuri is not going to last like this. Fuck.

There’s a sound bubbling in him, caught in the curve of his ribs, and he’s reasonably sure it’s Otabek’s name. He keeps his mouth sealed around the head of his cock and sucks for all he’s worth, feeling the suction like electricity all the way through his spinal column, pleasure sparking all his nerve endings. It pools in his nipples, his fingertips, the hollows behind his eyes. His hand fists around his cock, tugging frenetically.

His breath is too short for this; he has to pull off to gasp into his thigh, his hand still working between his legs, shocks traveling from his cock to his hairline. God. He’s going to feel this orgasm in his _throat._

“Yura,” Otabek whines, high and thin, and Yura nearly tips over the edge at the sound.

“Fuck,” Yuri pants, “Beka, Beka—”

He curls into himself again, slips his lips over the head of his cock and feels lightning strike him in the solar plexus, jagged ribbons of plasma slicing along his bones as he comes on his own tongue, salty-sharp and overwhelming. He can’t fucking _breathe_ through the force of his climax. Come drips messily from the corner of his mouth.

When his muscles release him, he swallows and flops backwards across the bed.

Long moments pass before he can force his eyes open.

The sight that greets him nearly drives them closed again in a rumble of echoed pleasure, the thunderclap after the lightning. Otabek’s head is tipped back against his headboard like he can’t be bothered to use his neck and there’s a streak of white up the front of his shirt. His mouth hangs open around his labored breathing.

“Holy shit,” Yuri whispers, and then again because it bears repeating. “Holy _shit.”_

Otabek blinks slowly and tilts his head back upright. He starts to raise his hand, then apparently notices that it’s dripping with come; his face flushes and Yuri grins at him, sated and easy.

Yuri’s neck is going to kill him tomorrow. Yakov will probably kick him out of the rink for extra ballet practice once it becomes obvious how stiff his back is.

It’s so fucking worth it. It’s worth every single leap combination, every barre exercise, every painful drill Lilia will throw at him to see Otabek with that fucked-stupid look on his face and to know that he, Yuri, put it there.

“So?” Yuri asks. Otabek looks at him blankly for a moment, visibly groping for words.

“...I think I should have bought you dinner first.”

Yuri bursts out laughing.

 


End file.
